


Hunger

by onelongwinter



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Somewhat implied felix/sylvain, sex as self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-03 19:47:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20458472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onelongwinter/pseuds/onelongwinter
Summary: He doesn’t realize that it’s not normal, not until he’s older. They never look at Miklan that way, their eyes don’t follow him down the halls, and their gaze doesn’t wash over him, sizing him up. They look hungry, and it makes him feel gross inside, but he doesn’t have the words yet to explain why. He’s figured it out fairly early that he can get things if he gives them what they want. A wink here, a flirty giggle there, some nice words sprinkled among them all. He gets sweets out of it, and attention, and it’s almost enough to make him feel better and wash away the sticky grossness that settles on the back of his neck.He’s eight when Miklan pushes him down during training and calls him a whore.





	Hunger

**Author's Note:**

> The way Sylvain thinks about himself, and women, and sex, is awful and messy, so this fic is also extremely messy. But I wanted to write it out, because he's such an interesting and screwed up character. Please be careful of the content warnings, although any underage sexual content is mostly non-explicit.

There’s a monster in the well, Miklan tells him, and he shrinks way back. Miklan just laughs, and grips the back of his neck, pushing his face down over it like he’s punishing a puppy who soiled the rug.

“What’s stopping the monster from climbing out and eating us?” he whispers, his shaky voice echoing around the empty darkness. Miklan smiles, showing entirely too many teeth, and Sylvain is shaking with fear.

“Oh you know,” he says, voice light and jovial. “You just have to keep it well fed.”

And he gives him a push.

* * *

The Lance of Ruin wriggles like it’s alive. It wriggled like that in Miklan’s hands too, and it makes him sick to look at. The girl on top of him grabs his face and pulls it back to face her. 

“Look only at me,” she breathes, and he stares blankly up at her as she moves back and forth on top of him. He’s just watched his brother die. She orgasms, and he slides out of her, half erect. 

“That was nice,” she says. “Oh, you haven’t finished yet. Here, let me-“

He slaps her hands away. “I think we should break up,” he says, and his voice sounds like it’s coming from a place over his head, like he’s not even speaking. She falters, and she stares back in shock. 

“What?”

“You heard me,” he says. “With a performance like that, I think it’s better if we see different people.” 

A few minutes later he’s alone again, with a rapidly blackening eye. The lance twitches at him. 

“Maybe we should see different people, too,” he jokes, and the Lance trembles like it’s laughing. 

But it’s just a Lance.

* * *

He doesn’t realize that it’s not normal, not until he’s older. They never look at Miklan that way, their eyes don’t follow him down the halls, and their gaze doesn’t wash over him, sizing him up. They look _hungry_, and it makes him feel gross inside, but he doesn’t have the words yet to explain why. He’s figured it out fairly early that he can get things if he gives them what they want. A wink here, a flirty giggle there, some nice words sprinkled among them all. He gets sweets out of it, and attention, and it’s almost enough to make him feel better and wash away the sticky grossness that settles on the back of his neck.

He’s eight when Miklan pushes him down during training and calls him a whore.

* * *

“These are for you,” Dimitri says, pushing a satchel of herbs across the table. Sylvain opens them up and raises an eyebrow at him. 

“I’m surprised your Royal Highness knows what these are,” he says, and Dimitri flushes bright red. He’s easy to embarrass. 

“Dedue grew them and asked me to give them to you. His reasoning is that if we can’t stop you, we might as well make sure you’re safe while you… you know,” Dimitri trails off, ears almost fluorescent. 

“Thank you,” Sylvain says, and it is a really nice gift. He already has his own stock in his room, herbs to cause temporary sterility and prevent venereal diseases. He’s practically religious about taking them, even if they do make him a bit queasy. He hasn’t had a lot of time to peruse Garreg Mach’s library yet, but maybe Professor Manuela knows some spells that might do it better. Maybe Manuela knows a spell that will render him permanently sterile. He’d be okay with that. “You should tell Dedue that he should give them to me in person next time.”

“You should talk to him about it. I don’t want there to be a next time,” Dimitri says, and Sylvain just laughs and picks up his tray. There’s a cute girl who’s been eyeing him up all day, and he’s got a date.

* * *

It’s cold in the well, and his voice is almost gone. He’s a strong swimmer, but Castle Gautier is in the far north, and the autumn air is chilly. His nails scrape against the stones, scrabbling for purchase. His right arm is in agony. He banged it on the way down, protecting his head. The pain is a good thing, because at least it means hypothermia hasn’t set in.

“Miklan!” He shrieks, and his nails break and bleed, smearing red all over the mildew covered walls. “Please! Help me!” Miklan plays with the rope, swinging it so the bucket clatters against the stone out of reach. His eyes are hungry, and it almost looks like he’s getting off on the whole thing.

“Nah, gotta feed to monster, Sylvie!” He calls down. “For the good of House Gautier, and all that!”

He pulls the bucket up and sets it gently on the rim.

“The evening watch will be around in about thirty minutes,” Miklan says. “Don’t drown on me.”

He’s alone, and screaming, and there never was a monster in the well. It’s just him, cold and wet and crying.

* * *

It’s another day, and another girl in his room, this time a merchant girl from the village. She’s loud, gasping and moaning as he runs his tongue over her clit. He’s good at this, at making girls tremble. He makes a big show of swallowing after she comes, and she giggles, and pats the bed next to her. They switch places, her on her knees, him sitting with his legs spread on the bed. She licks a stripe up his cock, and he gasps and clutches the sheets in his hands.

She’s also good at this, he thinks, and maybe he’ll bother remembering her name this time. She teases him, running her hands up his thighs and playing with his balls, leaving him on edge. She’s very, very good at this, he thinks again as she engulfs him in her warm mouth, and then something catches the corner of his eye.

The Lance pulsates, and he retches, involuntarily, and pushes her away. A long string of spit trails from the tip of his cock to her lips, and oh Goddess, human beings really are so disgusting, aren’t they.

“I’m sorry, I think we should stop-“ he gasps out, and she follows his gaze and lets out a shriek, not of pleasure this time, but of fear.

“What is that THING?” she yells, and the Lance wriggles at her in all of its grotesque glory. The noble girls he brings back to his room have seen Hero Relics before, but he supposes to a commoner, especially one outside the academy, it must be particularly awful. She’s out of his room so quickly her shift is on backwards, and she almost knocks Dimitri to the floor on her way out. Dimitri gives him an exasperated glace.

“Please tell me you’re using those herbs,” he says, in such a plaintive tone that Sylvain can’t help but feel guilty. He knows from the fact that their rooms are next to each other that Dimitri’s sleep schedule is terrible, and he’s been woken by screaming multiple times already.

“Of course,” Sylvain says, putting on an insulted tone. “I always do. Ya know, you should ask Dedue if he has any herbs to help you sleep.”

Dimitri weighs his words carefully, and sighs. “I don’t want to be impaired in case of an attack,” he responds. Sylvain bites back a retort, because it’s not as if he’s been sleeping well recently either.

* * *

“You have cum all over your face,” Miklan snarls, and Sylvain yelps and digs around in his pockets for a handkerchief. He’s fourteen, and he’s just spent the past twenty minutes gasping between a duchess’s legs. She’s older than him by at least three years, and she wrapped her legs around his head, pushing his face so deep into her he could barely breathe. He supposes she must have found that erotic, because she came soon after that, and he inhaled some of it and choked. 

“What did you get out of it this time?” Miklan mocks as he scrubs his face. “How much did she pay you?”

“She didn’t pay me anything, I just wanted to,” he says flippantly. Miklan already thinks so low of him, that he shouldn’t care what he says. But it still bothers him. Miklan makes a huffing noise and walks away, and Sylvain dashes to the bathroom to make sure he’s gotten it all off. 

It’s not entirely a lie, what he said to Miklan. He did just want to. Lady Talthira is looking for someone with a crest to strengthen her bloodline, and Sylvain? He wanted to try something new. He’s not being paid for the sex, the sex is the payment. No one else seems to get it. It’s all a transaction. She wants to use him, he gets to use her. 

* * *

It always starts the same way. He’s perfected this routine, practiced it, until it’s as natural as breathing. He doesn’t go after just anyone, just the ones who are hungry. He learned a long time ago how to feed the beast.

There’s a merchant who’s passing through, the perfect target. He’ll be gone in a week or so, and he can see the way the man examines him, like he’s another exotic good to sling over his overworked donkey. So tonight, he turns on the charm.

It’s muscle memory, at this point. At ten he figured out what his best angle was, at twelve he’d perfected the same, sultry expression he’s using now, and when his voice finally deepened at fourteen he started working on the best pitch and tone. It’s easy now, like slipping on a pair of old boots.

“I’d heard that Garreg Mach is full of repressed sluts, but I had no idea it was true,” he laughs into Sylvain’s ear as they grind against each other behind the closed blacksmith’s shop. Sylvain laughs back because it’s true. He slides down the walls, fingers fumbling at the man’s belt. He wants to try some of the tricks he’s learned from his last fling, the teasing and licking.

The Lance isn’t here this time, he thinks, slightly disturbed that it’s been able to sneak into his thoughts like this. He opens wide and takes the man’s cock into his mouth. He bobs back and forth, more unsure of himself than he’s letting on. He’s always been good at faking it before, regardless of gender.

He’s not really used to this, truthfully. He’s always liked men, he’s known that from a young age. It was just never an option he had allowed himself to consider before. He’s flirted, sure, and made out with a few in the past. But his sexual experiences with men have been largely limited to wet dreams and masturbation.

The man grabs his hair and pulls him in close. Sweaty public hair fills his nostrils and he gags as the man’s cock threatens to choke him. He doesn’t fight back, even though he knows he’s strong and skilled enough to get out of this hold. He just lets himself go along with the ride, and the man comes pretty quickly.

“I’ll give you a discount next time you come by, okay kid?” The man says, and he’s left frustrated with a mouth full of semen. It’s not a complete loss, he thinks as he slumps against the wall and swallows heavily. He’s learned something he’s known deep down for a while, about himself. Men are entirely selfish when it comes to sex in a different way.

* * *

The other kids don’t seem to get it. Ingrid thinks he’s disgusting, and he supposes she’s right, but she doesn’t really understand. They play king of the hill, and Glenn wins every time, because he’s bigger and stronger. It’s not really about winning, but about having Glenn pick you up and toss you into the pond. There are so many people at court, in fancy clothes and elaborate hairstyles, and they shy away as the ragtag group of filthy children run amok on the grounds. They’re young enough that they can still get away with it, but old enough to know that it won’t last much longer. 

They’re all stripped off as much fancy court clothes as possible, and they’re all completely soaked. Glenn raises a laughing Dimitri above his head and hurls him into the pond. He’s not comfortable, still wearing one too many layers. His clothes are wet, and they stick to him, and he can already feel the prickle of eyes on the back of his neck. The other kids haven’t seemed to notice, maybe they’re too young, but it started too young for him, too.

“I’m king of the hill!” Glenn shouts, and with his long, dark hair coming down from its bun, Sylvain feels a little something flutter in his chest. He immediately feels weird about it. After all, he’s Felix’s brother, and the five of them have known each other for so long it feels almost as bad as if he had a crush on Miklan. Still, as Glenn grabs ahold of his wrist and hoists him up, kicking and screaming, he can’t help but feel a burning hotness where their bare skin touches. Then Glenn chucks him into the pond and cold water washes the feeling away. 

At some point a tutor comes out and yells at them about propriety and shame and all that, so now they’re all drying off. Glenn is helping Ingrid with her braids, and Dimitri’s hair is doing… unfortunate things as it dries. He’s never been so grateful to have short hair, and he tries to disentangle knots and pond scum out of Felix’s locks. Felix keeps making this little yelping noise as he pulls the comb through.

“Getting pretty long now, huh?” He asks, and Felix sniffles a little. “Trying to grow it out like your bro?”

Felix perks up at that. “Yeah! It’s gonna look so cool once it’s long enough to put up like he does.”

“Maybe I should cut mine off,” Dimitri grumbles. “People already think I look like a girl.”

“Is there a problem with that?” Ingrid demands, and Sylvain snorts as Dimitri desperately backpedals. 

“Well, you could always style it like Sylvain does,” Glenn says, and then his laughter falls silent. He looks like he’s glaring at him, and suddenly he’s across the room, pulling the collar of his shirt down. There’s a massive bruise on his collarbone. 

“Did I do that?” He asks, and suddenly he’s being bombarded on all sides by his friends. 

“No, no, it’s an older bruise,” he explains, and Ingrid’s sharp eyes have already noticed a fading bruise on his forehead, half hidden by hair. 

“From training?” Dimitri asks, and he’s turning his wrist over to see the deep purple blooming in the shape of fingerprints. “These don’t look like training bruises.”

“No, I- I got into a fight with Miklan,” he stammers. “It was something dumb, I gave as good as I got, anyway.”

“You get into a lot of fights with Miklan,” Felix says and he wants him to shut up. “I never get into fights like that with Glenn.”

“Well aren’t you lucky,” he snaps, and he can see Felix’s face fall. “Look, I appreciate the worry, but I’m fine.

“Besides,” he adds. “I think it makes me look roguishly handsome. Ingrid, do you think your granny will like it?” A wet towel thwaps across his face, and it seems like his bruises are forgotten in the ensuing chaos. 

* * *

It’s not going to go past sex, it never will. The knight kneeling over him knows that too, and it’s fine. He doesn’t even know his name. He did at one point, but he’s purposely forgotten it.

“First time?” He asks, and Sylvain nods. His hand wanders down his thighs, pulling them apart. He’s fully erect, resting his cock on Sylvain’s hip bone as he runs his hand over his lips. He opens them, letting the man push his fingers inside. “We have to make sure you’re all loosened up,“ he says, as he sucks and licks them. “Your first time will probably hurt, but I’ll make sure you feel good.”

He knows that’s bullshit, because he’s used that line himself. It’s not how bodies work, he’s fooled around with enough different ones to know that it shouldn’t hurt, it doesn’t have to hurt. The Lance of Ruin seems to nod in agreement from its position in the corner, and as the man slides his fingers from his mouth and pushes them against his asshole, he wonders if the Lance really can read his mind. A finger slides in, and he fists his hands in the sheets and grits his teeth. 

He’s done this to himself before, so he knows it can be pleasant, but he’s so anxious he can’t help but clamp up, so he forces himself to relax, muscle by muscle, as the man stretches him out. He doesn’t know how old he is, and he doesn’t care. He’s just using him, after all, to figure out something about himself. The man can do whatever he wants to his body in return. 

“Are you ready?” He’s asking, and Sylvain nods again. The man is smearing some lotion on his dick, and grabs Sylvain’s hips hard enough that he knows there will be bruises the next morning. He thrusts in, and Sylvain clamps his hand over his mouth to cut off a scream. 

The Lance bristles, sensing its Master’s pain, and he wonders if it acted this way with Miklan, if it cared when he transformed. Another thing that cares only about Crests, he thinks, trying to distract himself from what’s happening to his body. They’re both using each other, he laughs to himself. They’re no different from his usual relationships. A weapon that wants to be wielded, and a user who needs a weapon. 

The man has started moving, and he’s trying to calm down and let the rhythm take over him. His whole body is being dragged along, the top of his head banging into the wooden headboard, which in turn bangs into the stone wall. He grabs on to it, gripping the headboard as if to steady himself, but the man takes the opportunity to hike his legs over his shoulders, and plunge in deeper. 

There’s a weird noise, and it takes him a minute to realize it’s him – somewhere between a moan and a whimper, a high pitched, repeating _ah, _that feels like it’s being forced out every time the man slams into him. It’s only then that he realizes that the man is talking to him, asking him questions. 

“Do you feel good? Is this position okay?” It’s annoying, and he wants him to shut up. Why should this man care about him feeling good? It’s not like anyone else does. He picked him because he was hungry, too, the way his eyes followed him, the way they traced the curve of his ass. 

He says yes, and it’s not like he’s lying. Now that he’s used to the unrelenting push and pull, it’s easier to focus on the pleasure building up in the pit of his stomach. The Lance seems to have gone dormant, assured that he’s not in danger anymore. He hates looking at it, but he doesn’t want to look at the man’s face. What would Miklan say if he could see him? He doesn’t know if he believes in ghosts or the afterlife, but it doesn’t take a ghostly appearance from beyond the grave to imagine his brother’s voice. 

“You really do spread your legs for anyone, huh?” He’d say. Maybe he’d laugh, to know that the pride and hope of the Gautier bloodline likes men, too. He doesn’t want to know what it says about him, to keep thinking about his brother while getting thoroughly fucked by another man. He doesn’t need a doctor to tell him that he has issues. 

The man comes inside him, and it’s a sticky, hot wetness. He immediately feels disgusted, and for the first time he feels some empathy for the girls he fucks. The man pulls out of him, and it dribbles out onto the sheets. The full feeling is replaced by a sharp ache, and the knight swears under his breath. 

“Oh, you’re bleeding a little.”

“I’m okay. You should probably go. We don’t want anyone to see us.” 

“You haven’t-“

“It’s okay, I’ll finish myself up.” He watches the man as he lingers, buckling on his armor. Maybe he hopes that Sylvain will invite him back for a round two, but he says nothing. The knight clanks off down the hall, and Sylvain lies back in bed, pushing his sweaty hair out of his face. He hasn’t been able to truly get it up since Miklan died, and that’s the last thing he wants to explain to a partner. The door creaks open. 

“Forget something?” He says, putting on a sultry voice, but it’s Felix, in his nightclothes, looking irritated. He scrambles for a blanket to cover himself, but Felix has already seen everything. Concern flits across his face, hidden again by that same, grumpy look. 

“There’s blood all over your sheets.”

“I know,” he snaps. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“I would be if my friend’s sex noises didn’t wake me up. Do… you need to go to the infirmary?”

“Aw, you called me your friend,” he teases, and Felix shuts down again. 

“Clearly you’re okay if you can still mess around,” he remarks. “Didn’t know you swung that way.”

“Well, if Flayn is to be believed, apparently I’m also into horses and chickens. What, you want a turn?” He lifts himself out of bed, sheets wrapped around his waist. His legs almost give out as he lets out a moan of pain, but he catches himself before he falls. 

“Who know what disease I’d get from you,” Felix says. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m going to take a shower. Go back to bed.” 

Felix gives him another look, probably because he thinks he isn’t watching. It’s not hungry, though. He can’t help but feel relieved. 

* * *

He’s frozen. Glenn taught him how to float, and all kids know what to do if you fall through the ice in Faerghus. Water laps around his body, supporting it, gently rocking it.

It’s not dark, not really. The moon shines bright overhead, and he’s swimming in it. Maybe this is what people talk about, when they talk about being cradled by the grace of the goddess. He doesn’t really know what he believes, to be honest, but he thinks that must be nice. Sex is one thing, but the way people talk about love, be it goddesses or lovers or older brothers, it must be something special.

He’s stopped shivering, and deeply, dimly, in the back of his head he knows that’s a bad sign. Gautier territory is so cold, frostbite can set in quickly, but he’s sliding out of his own head, to weak or cold to fight back. He’s never been able to fight back before, either.

There’s no monster in the well, only him, and he can’t help but laugh a little, and laughs a little harder as the sound echoes around. To Miklan, it must seem like he’s the monster after all, and now he’s just where he’s supposed to be. But he can’t bring himself to think the same, because Miklan isn’t a monster, no matter how much he hurts him.

It’s his secret, his own personal revelation, gifted to him by the goddess as she caresses him in moonlight. He’s not a monster, and neither is Miklan, they’re both just scared of the real monsters, who wear jewels and embroidered clothes and are always hungry for the flesh of children.

When they pull him out of the well, the maids tell him later, he was so cold and white they thought he would die. He doesn’t remember that part, just sky and water and the reflections of himself and the moon and the monster that maybe didn’t exist melting together as they lifted him from the water.

* * *

“Did you hear what happened?” Ingrid whispers as she sits down at breakfast. The whole house crowds around her, even those who aren’t usually invested in gossip. “A knight got caught with a student last night.” 

The whole bottom of his stomach falls out, and he can feel Felix’s stare on the back of his neck.  
“I only found out because I was up early on stable duty, but I have never seen Alois mad before. It was terrifying,” she continues.

“Did you find out who it was? Not that I need, or even really want to know, but you know… I’m worried,” Annette says. “Do you know if it was a relationship or was it…” Ingrid shakes her head as she trails off.

“No clue. I think Alois noticed I was there. But the knight involved is getting reassigned to Fodlan’s Locket.”

“Wait, seriously?” He interjects, and luckily he seems to have controlled his emotions enough that no one looks too closely at his outburst.

“It makes sense,” Ashe says. “Consensual or not, the Knights of Seiros swear oaths of chivalry. Taking advantage of a student under their protection goes against everything those vows stand for.”

He’s about to argue back, but then he feels someone tap his shoulder. It’s whats-his-name, Cyril, that’s it. 

“Professer Byleth wants to see you in her office,” he says. 

“Looks like someone’s in trouble,” Felix deadpans, and when he meets his eyes, he knows that Felix knows exactly what Byleth wants to talk to him about.

* * *

He’s twelve the first time it happens, when Baroness Hulain corners him in the library. He’s been flirting with her all day, and she laughs and he laughs back and it’s almost okay, the way she looks at him when she thinks he’s not watching. He’s awkward, and gangly, and his voice is starting to crack but it hasn’t deepened yet, not like Glenn’s and Miklan’s have. She’s taller than him, and he’s struggling to place a spell book back on the shelf.

“Let me help you with that,” she says, and she presses against his body. Time slows down, her hand around his, her other pushing up under his shirt. Her breasts rest heavy against the back of his neck and he freezes.

“Cute little boy, are you ready to become a man?” she purrs, and the spell book drops to the floor, and it’s the only think he can think of – he needs to learn that basic healing spell or his tutor will be so mad, don’t think about the hand wandering up your inner thigh, don’t think about the sweat dripping down the back of your neck – and he sees it.

A pair of eyes, Miklan’s eyes, peeking through the open door. He’s still frozen, and any fear the must be showing in his panicked face is just reflected back in the disgust etched across Miklan’s.

Please, he wants to say, but he can’t, he never expected it to go this far, not yet. She’s trailing kisses down his neck. With each kiss, he can see Miklan slowly, slowly shut the door.

Pain blossoms across his vision and he screams. He reacts without thinking, driving his elbow into her stomach. She lets go with gasp of pain, and he sprints for the door, slamming it on the way out. He careens down the hallway, not as fast as his heart is beating.

He’s outside before he realizes it, and the cold air stops the suffocating feeling, at least for a little bit. The water is ice cold, but he doesn’t even hesitate before pulling up a bucket of water to rinse off where she’s kissed him. It’s only when he’s finished that he realizes he’s been crying.

They don’t talk again for the rest of her visit, but he can’t exactly avoid her, either. Instead, he spends the rest of her time engaging in flirtations with other girls.

_See?_ He tries to say, as he snuggles up close to chambermaid and lets her plant a kiss on his cheek in front of the Baroness_. I just didn’t want you. _

When she leaves the next morning, he swallows down his nausea and sends her off with a sunny smile. She blushes, but not in the same lighthearted flirtatious way she did before. Shame turns her head away, and keeps her eyes cast downwards as she mumbles a goodbye.

Good, he thinks savagely. He’s fought back, for once. Her hurt feels good and it’s almost enough to wash away the sticky grossness that’s settled in the bottom of his stomach. It’s at least enough to calm the still itching pain, hidden behind a high collar and an unsuccessful heal spell, of the bitemark she’s left on his neck.

* * *

He’s sitting in Byleth’s office, and he feels weirdly shaky. She offers him a seat, and he takes it, trying, and failing, to hide the hiss of pain as he sits down. 

“The faculty is… concerned about you,” she says, and her voice is neutral, the way it always is. 

“How nice.”

They sit in silence, and Byleth leans forward, examining him. To anyone not familiar with her, her gaze would come off as blank and unsettling but to him, well, it’s still unsettling. But she’s way sharper than anyone would imagine. 

“If you need to talk about anything, you know that you can come to me, right?” she asks, and he nods. 

“Does… the whole staff know?” He asks in return, and he’s relieved when she shakes her head.

“Alois gave the entire staff- knights and teachers alike - a stern talking to. He was furious- he has a young child of his own, you know. But he didn’t give any specifics. I’m sure Manuela and Hanneman have figured it out, though.” She sighs a little. “We all just want to protect you, Sylvain.”

He can’t help but laugh at that. “I don’t need protecting, professor. I’ve been doing this for a long time.”

“You are under our care,” she says, her voice calm and logical. “You may think you don’t need it, but what that knight did to you was wrong. There is a reason why we’re forbidden from having romances with students.”

“It wasn’t wrong, I was asking for it. I was the one seducing him, it should be me who gets punished.”

“It _was_ wrong. The Knights of Seiros are supposed to be protecting you, not taking advantage of you. Children are supposed to make mistakes, it’s how you learn. It’s our job to help you with that, not enable them.”

He can feel hysteria rising in his throat like bile, and he wants to punch her, scream at her, make her hurt. Instead he stands up, and turns away. 

“So what, I’m adult enough to put a spear through my brother’s chest, but not adult enough to have _sex_?” He spits out, and it would be so much crueler and wittier if his voice didn’t crack like he was about to cry. 

“Sylvain-” She calls out after him, but he’s already gone, striding up the stairs back to lock himself in his room. 

He curls up on his bed and buries his face into a pillow and screams. She’s right, Byleth is always right, and he hates her for it. How dare she lecture him so matter of factly, someone who grew up with no expectations, with only love and no worries about Crests or bloodlines? 

How dare you? He wants to scream. Where were you? Where were you when he was a child, and terrified at the way people looked at him, they way they talked about him, the way they touched him? Where were you when he really was a child, angry and scared and on his knees anyway? All this bullshit about, about protecting children, but nobody protected him then, and he had to figure it out all on his own, how to hurt and help himself. 

The Lance twitches sadly in the corner, and he wants to scream at it too. It’s an ugly reminder that it’s not really Byleth he’s mad at. It’s not like she could have done anything. But someone should have. 

He’s full out bawling now, for the first time since Miklan died, and he’s not crying because his brother is dead, but because he’s lost his chance to ever really have one. Part of him still wanted to believe that one day they could have been family, after all. Whatever Miklan did or said to him, the thing that hurts the most is that he saw what was going on, and he let it happen to him. Crests and bloodlines are awful, and they hurt everyone in different ways, and the worst thing is the Miklan saw that and wanted him to hurt too, as if that would fix things, as if that would make it better. 

He wants his brother so badly, but a version of Miklan who helped him. A version of Miklan who gave him hugs and taught him how to use a lance and joked around with him. A version of Miklan who reached out to him and they could somehow stop it, the pain and the suffering their family perpetuated on their own children. 

But that wasn’t the brother he had. His brother died, snarling and angry, a monster, not of his own making, but made by everyone around him. And his brother saw what they were doing to him, and he was a child, and he let it happen to him anyway.

* * *

Their mouths and fingers are stained purple from the blackberries, and they’re almost the same color as the bruises on his ribs and the hickeys on his neck. His friends are eleven, and he is thirteen, and he is so very adult.

Glenn is a big strong knight already, so now he’s got the task of watching over everyone, which isn’t that bad. Felix is chatting about the sword Glenn bought him for his birthday, and Dimitri is obsessed with politics, going on and on about Duscar-Faerghus relations. Next year the king is supposed to go on a tour of the region to promote political peace and reform in the region, and it will be the first time he’ll be allowed to come along.

Ingrid, on the other hand, is strangely silent. Her hands are still steady as she fills her skirts with blackberries, trying not to stain the fabric. He can see that it’s already been repaired and let out already, perhaps a hand-me-down from an older relative. He never had them, himself.

The other two boys seem to be deep in conversation, so he makes his way over to her, settling himself on the other side of the bush.

“Berry for your thoughts?” He calls out. She opens her mouth, and catches the blackberry he throws her way effortlessly. That’s how she’s always been. She makes everything seem easy. She chews, eyes drifting far away, as she tries to piece together what she wants to say. She swallows heavily.

“Did you hear about my engagement?” She asks, and the bottom of his stomach drops out. He gapes at her.

“No, who is it? I mean, congratulations, of course, but-“

“Glenn.”

“GLENN?” He says, louder than he intends to, and Dimitri and Felix’s heads pop up. He wills them to turn back to their conversation. Felix, at least, seems to know what they’re talking about, and he gives them an excited grin, before he beckons Dimitri’s attention back to him.

“Yes, it will be very good for House Galatea,” she responds, playing with her hair. Her expression looks happy, but her voice sounds flat and nervous.

“And for you?” He inquires.

“Glenn’s a great person,” she says, casting her eyes back at the bush. “And I love him a lot. Just…”

He waits for her to respond, but she doesn’t.

“You don’t know if you love him in that way, don’t you? Or you don’t know if you want to get married at all?”

“A little of both, I suppose,” she says. “It must sound silly.”

“I don’t think so,” he says. “Is your family forcing you into this?”

“Not forcing, no. But they did set us up. They believe it will be for the best for our family, and for me.”

“Do you think that way?” He asks, and she shrugs.

“Yes, I do.”

“But are you happy?” She doesn’t seem happy, but now she looks angry.

“Does it matter?” She snaps, and he flinches back. “It’s my duty-“

“Screw duty,” he yells, and now Dimitri and Felix are staring at them. He can feel the air getting hot and thick, but he has to break through, maybe he can help her-

“I will do whatever it takes for my family,” she says, and there is lightning in her eyes and venom on her tongue. “And I do love Glenn, and he loves me. It’s not like _you’d_ understand what that feels like. Tell me, with all your skirt-chasing have you found anyone that loves you?”

Anger is bubbling up under his skin. She doesn’t get it, she doesn’t understand, he has to make her understand, he has to save her. She is a child and she is so, so young and he can’t let her get hurt the way he has.

“So what, even if it is Glenn, you should just let your parent’s sell you off like, like cattle?”

“That is not what’s happening!” She yells, and he feels the hard smack of a hand stinging across his cheek. His head snaps to the side, and by the time his vision straightens out again, he can see her sprinting far, far away from him. It’s unusual for her to lose her temper like this, so this must have been weighing on her harder and longer than he expected. 

“That was cruel,” Dimitri says, quietly. “What both of you said. I’ll go talk to her.”

He runs after her, and he’s left alone with Felix.

“Glenn would never hurt Ingrid, you know that,” Felix whispers, and Sylvain winces at the tone. He’s just hurt everyone today, hasn’t he.

“I know,” He says. “He’s a great guy. It just isn’t fair.”

Maybe it’s not fair because he’s a great guy. Because Ingrid and Glenn might have truly fallen in love despite everything, and gotten married anyway. It’s not fair that it’s happening to her now, too.

And it’s not fair, that despite everything, her parents still tried to find someone who actually loved her, too.

* * *

He hides in the chapel, outside where people don’t usually go, back against the wall. Someone sits down around the corner from him. Mercedes arranges her skirts, and stares up at the sky. 

“Your friends are looking for you,” she says, sweetly and serenely. “I told them I saw you head towards the stables.”

“Thanks,” he says, and he means it. Mercedes is different, she gets it in a way the others don’t. It’s not like they don’t have their own problems, but they don’t have his problems. And he doesn’t really want them to understand them. 

She skootches a wrapped package of cookies across the ground to him. 

“You seem like you’ve been crying,” she explains. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

He contemplates the sweets for a bit, and takes a glance at her. She isn’t looking at him, just gazing at the clouds. 

“I keep hurting people,” he admits. “I don’t mean to, but I think… I want to.”

“I felt that way too, when I was little,” she says. “Before I entered the Church. I don’t feel that way anymore, but I’m still angry, sometimes. I just try to find ways to channel that anger into something productive.”

“Was it easy?” He asks, and she laughs. 

“Goddess, no. It’s never easy. No one can force you to do that, either,” she says, and it’s something he loves about her. He doesn’t love Mercedes in the same way he loves other girls, but he loves her because she’s the sister he wishes she had. She tells him what he needs to hear, and she’s admitted before that she’s happy that he’s one of the few people who gets what she’s talking about with Crests. 

“How did you get there?” He says, pulling his knees up to his chest and hugging them. “I’m just so… tired, all the time.”

She hums a little, as she tries to formulate her words. “I just realized that the person I was hurting the most was myself,” she finally answers. “That it didn’t matter. All that anger, and all it did was just backfire onto me. What a useless, stupid waste of all my energy.

“Really,” she continues. “Being angry _is _tiring. I never stopped being angry about Crests. But instead I decided that I had to do something, or my anger would just burn me up. I can’t decide for you. I can’t make you reach that point. You have to decide to stop hurting yourself, first.”

They sit there, and the breeze is turning colder. Autumn is coming. 

“I’m the student in the rumors,” he admits, quietly. “The one who, you know…”

“Had an illicit relationship with one of the knights.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” he laughs. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, maybe automatically. “This whole situation must be really uncomfortable.” 

“I’m used to rumors about me,” Sylvain says. “But for once I feel bad. It’s my fault he got transferred. He’ll probably die at Fodlan’s Locket.”

“He made his own decision,” she remarks. “He can claim you seduced him all he wants, but good people don’t get seduced by children.”

“I haven’t known a lot of good people, then,” he says, tracing his fingers around the cobblestones. “When people find out that you have a Crest, they don’t really care if you’re a child.”

“I’m sorry,” she says again, and he shrugs. 

“I guess that’s how the cookie crumbles,” he says, unwrapping her bag of sweets, and she laughs.

“When-” She starts, then pauses. “How long have you known that you liked men?”

He turns to face her, a little startled. She’s moved closer to him, and her face has flushed, either from embarrassment or the sudden chill. 

“Always, I think,” he says slowly. “I just never really allowed myself to act too far on it. Is that a problem?”

“Me too,” she says. “I mean, it’s not a problem at all. I like men and women, too.” 

He almost drops his cookie in shock, but he can’t stop a grin from spreading across his face. 

“Mercedes, you really are the only person who really understands,” he says, and he pops the cookie into his mouth. As he chews, he can see her smiling, too.

_I wish_, he wants to say to her. _That you could have been my older sibling instead. _

* * *

He can slowly feel warmth returning to his fingers, through the layers of fog that are surrounding his head, wrapped around him like the blankets they’ve bundled his frail and shivering body in.

“I f-fell, I fell,” he hears himself saying, over and over again. “I-I d-d-don’t know w-what hap-happened.” He must have struck his head on the way down, someone says, and that must be right, because something has broken in his head, he can’t feel anything, and he doesn’t really know where he is.

He’s shaking so badly that he’s sure he’ll bite his tongue off if he tries to speak.

“We need a healer in hear, quickly,” his mother shouts. “Miklan, watch him for me.”

They’re alone, his mother barking orders at servants in the hallway, and Miklan leans over him, and he’s back at the bottom of the well.

“Why didn’t you tell?” He demands. “They’d have believed you, too. You could have gotten rid of me, forever.”

Sylvain doesn’t respond. He can’t really focus on Miklan, he’s not really there, inside his own body. It’s stiff and cold, and he can’t feel anything. Miklan reaches under the covers and grabs onto his arm, squeezing tightly. He squirms in pain.

“Answer me,” he demands, putting more pressure on the break as Sylvain writhes on the bed beneath him.

“I couldn’t,” he gasps out. And that’s the truth. What’s the use? It would fix nothing. He would be robbing Miklan of the last bit of love he could get from their parents. “I felt sorry for you.”

His vision splinters, and he can hear screaming echoing around the room. Miklan’s full body weight is leaning on his broken arm, and even the numbing cold can’t mask the pain. His back arches, hands scrabbling at the sheets for something, anything, leaving streaks of blood where the scabs break.

“Don’t you dare pity me, you disgusting little whore. I don’t need it, I don’t want it. If you really felt sorry, you’d throw yourself back down there and drown,” he hisses, and his words are so sharp they cut through the unbearable pain.

His mother runs into the room, but Miklan’s already put his mask back up, playing the concerned older brother.

“Looks like this arm is broken really badly, Ma. I tried to move him into a more comfortable position, and just touching it was too painful.”

His mother fusses and dotes on him, and behind her he can see Miklan moving towards the bedroom door. He tries to call out to him, but he’s already gone.

* * *

Sometimes he wonders if he really died down there, and the monster crawled its way inside his skin and has been living there, nestled inside his ribcage. People who have had near death experiences often claim that everything snapped into place, that they figured it all out, and he did too. But the messier things get, the more he realizes that he never really had it all figured out, himself. Truth be told, he thinks that he’s still frozen, that he never unthawed after that night, just pale and cold and still numb.

Miklan had a monster inside him too, and both their monsters were hurt, and scared, and so very hungry. Crests do that to people, they taint and hurt everyone. There was no monster in the well, but he’s seen enough to know that they exist, whether or not they have fangs and claws. 

He’s perched up on the battlements, with only the Lance for company. He’s not really hiding from his friends anymore, and he feels a comfortable gaze rest on the back of his neck. Felix offers him a cup of hot tea.

“I didn’t tell them,” Felix says, and that’s just how he is, straight to the point. “I may be a jerk, but I’m not that much of a jerk.”

“I know you wouldn’t. It probably was for the best, though” Sylvain admits. They sit in silence for a while, and Sylvain fidgets with the Lance of Ruin. “I think maybe I should take a break from the whole.. you know.”

“Maybe then you’ll actually be able to focus on training.” Sylvain digs his elbow into Felix’s side and he yelps. 

“I’m sorry about your brother,” Felix mumbles. “I don’t think I ever told you that, even if he was terrible.”

“Thanks, but you don’t have to be,” Sylvain responds. He is too, in a way, and he doesn’t know if he should be. 

“If you need to talk..”

He turns to face Felix. “Do you want to talk?”

Felix pulls a face. “No.”

“Good, because I don’t really want to, either. It’s just really messy.”

“I’m not going to pretend that I understand,” Felix says, and Sylvain appreciates that about him, that he’s blunt and annoying, but refuses to sugarcoat things. He doesn’t understand Felix, and he doesn’t understand how awful it was to lose Glenn, and Felix will never understand him. So they’ll sit here, in mutual misunderstanding, and drink their tea on the battlements. In the end, they’ve both been grieving their brothers for so long now, just Sylvain’s was still alive. The Lance twitches, and he and Felix watch it with amused disgust. 

“How do you sleep with that thing in your room? It gives me the creeps,” Felix admits, and Sylvain just laughs. 

“Actually, I’ve taken to just locking it inside my dresser while I sleep. I’ve been getting weird dreams with it around.” 

“Doesn’t sound convenient if you get attacked.”

“Please, it’s Garreg Mach. Who’s going to attack us?”

Felix huffs and takes a sip of tea, and Sylvain leans back to watch the sun set. The rest of their class has joined them, bringing some special tea Dedue has made, and blankets, marked by Mercedes’s and Ashe’s careful stitching, and a line of Dimitri’s crooked and clumsy stitches as well. 

Maybe one day, he thinks, the Lance of Ruin will show everyone the monster inside him, and they’ll have to kill him too. Or maybe one day, true love will break the curse, or maybe just enough plain old regular love will do. Maybe if Miklan was loved enough too, it wouldn’t have turned out this way. But he was a child, and he couldn’t have stopped it, he wasn’t able to stop anything. He’ll sort through everything one day, when he’s finally ready to stop hurting himself first. 

For now though, he leans the Lance up against the wall and joins the fun. He is cold, and hurt, and more than a little hungry, but those are things he can work on. For now he and his friends are happy, and the Lance is only a lance.


End file.
